Oct

5

 Anarchy is the absence or nonrecognition of authority. Once you pass the abandoned guardhouse into this village limit, you live outside normal laws. To be governed is to be watched over, spied on, inspected, directed, legislated over, regulated, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, censored, and ordered about by people who have no right, nor knowledge, nor capability to do so. There is no government in Slab City.

Most of the residents are avowed anarchists. They have asked themselves in the past, why should any of us bother to get up in the morning to work our asses off to produce goods and services that only make an America we no longer agree with? The ones who have honestly answered that packed up and moved to Slab City, establishing a new home in less time than it takes to read The Anarchist's Cookbook.

There is not a single uninteresting person in Slab City, which cannot be said of anywhere else in the USA. It is a village of uncommonplace people doing odd things at all times of the day and night. The arriving children think they have slid down a slide across America into the Mars McDonald's playhouse.

They slide in, the grinning sons and daughters of the storm of their parents' lives, from traveling many miles cross country. This is the childhood moment when the door opens and the future is let in. For one family I recall as typical, the kids were a mess: two rubber tramp parents, a rust bucket car, suitcases filled with souvenirs from ten states, a bag of dumpster food, and no plans. It felt fine. They hit the Slabs running barefoot and haven't quit.

Most of their cars break down soon after arrival, or there's no money for gas, or the wheels are stolen in a whirlwind economy. The families become shipwrecked passengers in an anarchist theme park where freedom rings.

Their words of mouth pass by Facebook and online forums. Even the poorest wreck of a straggler has a phone he texts on. The lemming like nature of humans never ceases to amaze me. They get the online green light, and just start walking, thumbing, carpooling, dogging it on Greyhound, or riding westbound boxcars.

They struggle into town, up a hill of hope, and looking for a slab.

Two kinds of misfits are cast upon the slabs: The first are driven, and the second drawn. The former are more interesting, crying about how lonely it was to be drowning in a society where everyone else could swim, and so they braved into this new world. The latter who are drawn, like me, walk the lonely streets in slow motion, as observers.

There is nothing quite as sensational as a collaboration of misfits. There is an initial segregation across the slabs, as puzzle pieces are divided on a table before the final picture, of the gregarious who camp along the main stems where you can hear your neighbors climax, and the introverts who occupy the outlying campsites where they may rise each morning out of eyesight. There is a continual shifting of camps, as individuals and groups grow trusting of one another, or are squeezed out, burned out, or robbed out.

I dip daily like bobbing for apples into town to scout for green pioneers whom society has designated as outcasts, and step up to learn from them. I've discovered there's a little anarchist in everyone, which just has to be recognized.


Comments

Name

Email

Website

Speak your mind

Archives

Resources & Links

Search